


The Devil By Your Side

by tristesses



Series: Love's Ugly Little Twins [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Body Horror, Bondage, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Kidnapping, Mind Games, Porn With Plot, Revenge, Unreliable Narrator, Warning: Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha always knew he'd catch up with her eventually. She just never thought it would be like <i>this</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil By Your Side

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand-alone sequel to [Such A Cunning Disguise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/459069) (ETA: Now with 100% working link!).
> 
> So this started out as a short little fill for a Kink Bingo square, somewhere around 2000 words. And then I thought, but what happens next? And then I kept writing, and writing, using other squares on my card for inspiration, and suddenly I wound up with this behemoth of a fill. It fulfills the postage stamp for animal play/emotion play/food/bondage (other).
> 
> Title is paraphrased from the Nick Cave song [Loverman](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P51IVqf28Hs), because apparently he makes up half of my Natasha/Loki playlist.

**I. Natasha**

Something sharp and unyielding is cutting into Natasha's wrists. There's something hard underneath her, too, a cold slab of stone or plastic, and the same things pinning down her arms are wrapped around her ankles. Natasha flexes against them, but her limbs are oddly heavy. Her skin is tingling all over, like she's been hit with a jolt of electricity, and the simplest body movements are beyond her: when she tries to open her eyes she can't quite remember how. She tries anyway until dizziness overtakes her and her eyes roll under their lids, her jaw sagging. Green webs of light dance on her eyelids, and she can picture them working their way through her skin, following the patterns of her veins - but what are they? Where is she?

A thread of panic jolts through her system when she realizes she doesn't know. Her pulse accelerates, and so does her breathing.

A cool, dry hand touches her cheek, strokes her soothingly. She doesn't trust it. Disoriented, she strains to lift her head, unsuccessfully, and knows that there's something she should be doing, some way to free herself. But she can't fight like this; she needs to sleep, wait it out until she can function again. Nothing else to do.

Turning her face away from the thing trying to calm her, Natasha breathes deeply and goes limp, willing herself unconscious. Sleep comes more easily than she'd expected.

 

**II. Loki**

Loki hates.

It is a skill he has perfected over the centuries, collecting every slight and cruelty he's received, every moment he was ignored or overlooked or forgotten, and storing them away in his heart. It has created a slow-burning rage that occasionally explodes in incandescent fury, and he treasures it as his boon companion, the one thing of his that will never, ever leave.

Despite his long, long life, little he has experienced in the past can compare to how he hates Natasha Romanoff.

Loathsome mortal though she is, she has cut Loki in a uniquely deep way, made all the more potent by the subtlety of her skill. Truthfully, he admires her methods: she dizzied him with Midgardian drugs, abused him with words that echoed the worst of his childhood memories and all of his darkest thoughts; then, taking advantage of him at his weakest, she touched him with gentle hands and told him she cared for him; and in his diminished state he, Loki Lie-Smith who sees through others' falsehoods like a knife slicing through thin paper, had _believed_ it. Her words were slanted at the precise angle to make him fracture perfectly. A mere _mortal_ had broken him, and oh, how the knowledge burns. 

There is, of course, only one way she could have known exactly what to say. Thor must have told her everything. That, too, fuels Loki's wrath, the knowledge that Thor thinks nothing of feeding this woman information she can use to harm Loki, despite the words he says in that despicable, pleading voice: _Brother, why must you do this? Brother, come home. Loki, you are loved, you are family, come back to us._

The liar. The fool. The false brother.

And Natasha Romanoff is his friend.

Even had he been the gracious sort, Loki would never forgive her for that.

 

**III. Natasha**

This time, Natasha is aware of her surroundings when she comes to. She's cuffed to a table, spread-eagled, with just enough give in the restraints to bend her knees and wrists slightly. Her mind is still a little bleary, though with some effort she can think clearly, and she aches all over, but whether it's from a fight or from being kept immobile for too long she's not sure. She's hungry but not dehydrated, and she has no memory of the hours before. And she's naked. 

_That's a little worrying,_ she thinks dryly, but it's nothing she hasn't handled before. She opens her eyes just a sliver, and takes in her surroundings the best she can.

The room she's in is walled with stone, high-ceilinged, and dimly lit with a flickering light, though she can't smell the faint smoke that would indicate candles or torches. The floors are lined with lush carpets, clearly expensive. To her disconcertion, there is no visible door. But, as she reminds herself, she should worry about a way out once she's capable of using it; first, she needs to examine the cuffs. When she twists her head to get a look at them, scanning for defects in the metal, she sees no seam that would indicate a weak point she could snap. Interesting. Their technological sophistication is a little surprising in comparison with the mediaeval feel of the room.

Suddenly, the still air of the room is disturbed by a slight breeze. Natasha instantly shuts her eyes and lets her muscles go lax, hoping whoever just entered - though it beats her how they entered - will think she's still asleep. She senses them moving around on feather-light feet, touching the cuffs on her ankles with gentle fingers, and then they're standing at her side. When they'd come in they'd brought cool air with them; her skin had broken out in goosebumps and her nipples had hardened, and now she can feel them staring at her breasts. _A pervert, then_ , she thinks, with an internal sigh, damping down her initial spike of alarm at the thought. _Fantastic._

To her surprise, she can barely hear them breathing, even with her enhanced hearing.

The silence drags on, and Natasha suspects she's being subject to an in-depth scrutiny. Usually, though, she can tell when people want her; she's spent much of her adult life manipulating men who've wanted to fuck her (and underestimated her in the process), and she knows how it feels to be watched. This isn't the same; this is oddly detached, almost alien.

"It's good to see you again, Agent Romanoff," her captor finally says, and every muscle in Natasha's body tenses. Her eyes fly open, and she snaps her head around to look at him.

"Loki," she breathes.

The god smiles at her. Written in the curve of his lips is dark amusement and the promise of something much worse than this. It doesn't bode well for Natasha.

"Yes," he says. "You are in Loki's hands. Tell me, are you comfortable?"

He's playing a game with her. She needs to figure out the rules.

"This place could use a little work," she says. "Maybe I'd like it better if you loosened these cuffs."

"Perhaps if you had loosened mine, I would."

She keeps her voice steady when she says, "I was just following orders. It wasn't personal."

"Do not try to lie to the god of lies!" He raises his hand and she braces herself for impact, but he stops abruptly on the downswing, and touches the tip of her nose instead with one finger. "I know it was personal. Revenge for what atrocities I committed upon your city, and to your precious archer."

He pushes down on her nose until it hurts. She tries to move her head, but he grips her skull with his other hand, and keeps pressing until she hears a crack and blood leaks from her nostrils; just a simple fracture, she'll heal in no time, but she winces at the pain anyway. He dabs his fingers in the blood and raises them to his lips, licking at them with a pensive expression.

"This, too, is personal, little spider," he says. "Do you remember what I told you, that day you questioned me so charmingly?"

"Yeah," she says. His pleasant manner is a thousand times more alarming than his poison-filled diatribes. "Something about raping me and killing me and throwing me to the wolves."

"Ogres, I believe," he says. "Not my best work, as threats go, but it did provide me with a basis to work from."

Natasha wets her lips with her tongue and wishes for water. "I hope you got a little more creative this time around. I've heard the rape-the-whore speech a hundred times. It gets a little boring."

"I hate to disappoint you, but that will still be involved," he says, and the bastard does actually sound apologetic. "Make no mistake, it's not for my pleasure - I generally avoid coupling with lesser beasts - but it's a necessary first step for what I'm going to do to you."

"And what's the next step?" 

Natasha feels fear frequently in her work; it's a part of the job, and when controlled, it can help keep her sharp. Right now, she's got it under control.

Loki gives her a very good impression of a tender smile, and lays his hand gently on her stomach. He caresses her, and she squirms away from him instinctually but ineffectively. He asks,

"When those that shaped you into what you are now ripped out your womb, did it hurt?"

Natasha flinches, and curses herself. The operation had been so long ago, when she was still a teenager and the Red Room had decided that potential pregnancies were too big a risk for a Black Widow-in-training, but she remembers it vividly. Remembers the pain, and the panic, and the grim satisfaction in making sacrifices for her homeland.

"Not much," she lies. "I got over it."

His mouth curves; he caught that lie, then.

"That's unfortunate," he says, managing to sound regretful, but unable to completely excise the amusement from his voice. "The experience might have prepared you for this."

He spreads his hand across the lowest part of her stomach, the tips of his fingers brushing her pubic hair, and something prickles beneath her muscles everywhere his skin touches hers. Natasha cranes her head to look at his hand, then pain rips through her, concentrated right under his palm and exploding to fill her entire abdomen.

_Oh no, oh no, stop stop stop, it hurts - !_

"Can you handle it, Natasha?" Loki asks over her screams, his face alight with glee. She bucks her hips, trying to escape his grip, but his alien strength holds her down. "Can you handle this sort of agony?"

Natasha is flying apart. Her insides are sloughing off and knotting deep inside her, contracting and expanding, reshaping themselves; her flesh is tearing off and she can hear it, and it _hurts_ , oh god it hurts -

Loki lifts his hand, and the pain begins to fade. But there's a heaviness in her body that shouldn't be there, and her gullet rises when she realizes just what he's done.

"Why would you do this?" Her voice is a whimper. She's crying. She wants to kill him, more intensely than she's wanted to kill anyone.

"Is it not obvious?" This time, his grip isn't careful; he slides his hands under her hips, grabbing at her ass and thighs as if testing their firmness, and leans over her body, caging her in with his torso.

"I'm going to breed you, Natasha," he breathes, his face only inches from hers. "Like a kennel-master breeds a bitch. I shall plant children inside you and force you to bear them. You will mother an army, Natasha, a battalion of my monstrous offspring to fight against your _friends_ , and when you're done, maybe I will forgive you for your trespasses against me. I might even let you go. 

"But I doubt it."

Natasha can't breathe, can't speak. She lies there like a stunned animal and stares at him. Loki steps back and smiles, ecstatic at her terror.

"These are the consequences of torturing a god," he whispers. She clenches her teeth and refuses to look away from him. "Learn your lesson, wretched girl."

Her hands balling into fists, Natasha hisses, "You think what I did to you was bad? I haven't even started, motherfucker."

Loki laughs derisively, steps back, and abruptly blinks out of existence. At the same time, her bonds dissolve, and Natasha bolts up, hands going instantly to her stomach. When she applies pressure, it twinges so sharply she feels like she might be sick.

Hating him, hating herself, hating every fucking thing in the world, Natasha slides off the table and onto the carpet, curling into a ball on the soft fabric. She doesn't weep, though she wants to; she stares blankly at the wall opposite her, breathes slowly, and prays into the abyss for hope.

****

. . .

  


Food arrives about an hour later, though from where Natasha can't say; one moment the tabletop is empty, then suddenly a tray appears there, bearing fruit, bread, and cheese. A small pitcher of water accompanies it. Natasha stares at the food, and finds herself filled with an almost childish irritation, like the reality of teleportation is a personal affront. The asshole could at least use the door. She doesn't want to eat it, hating the idea of accepting anything from Loki, but she is famished.

_Growing a uterus from scratch apparently works up an appetite,_ Natasha thinks, and barks a laugh devoid of any humor, taking the tray and pitcher to the far corner of the room. It's safer there, with her back covered and her view of the room unobstructed. Realistically, of course, there's not much she can do to protect herself against magic, but it's the little things that keep her spirit alive. This isn't the first time she's been held captive. She'll survive this, too.

The meal isn't especially filling, but it's delicious: fresh figs, sharp cheese, and bread peppered with chunks of dates and raisins. Unusual choices, actually; Natasha wonders where she is, if that has anything to do with the food available. Drinking all the water at once is tempting, but she doesn't, taking little sips instead and tucking it away for later; there's no knowing how long it'll be until she gets a refill. Pressing her hand to her aching abdomen, she looks to the immediate future. 

Other tortures have been worse, but few situations have been this bleak. Escape is her only conceivable option, but it's useless to try without a plan, and she has none, no fucking clue how to sneak past Loki and make it out of here, wherever she is. He's too strong for her to take down easily at the best of times, and in her weakened state it's nearly impossible. She'll have to bide her time and build her strength, and that means letting Loki think she's beaten and broken. Easier said than done.

She doesn't let herself think about the details of his threats. Nothing she can do about them right now; she'll face them when the time comes.

****

. . .

  


The time doesn't come.

Natasha sleeps in short bursts, waking what feels like every hour with her skin prickling and the certainty of her looming death hovering over her. There's nothing for her to use as a toilet, so after some internal debate she urinates in a corner, wiping herself with a napkin. Her face flames when the mess vanishes after a minute or so; he's been watching her, letting her piss on herself rather than having the decency to give her a damn bathroom.

"Hope you enjoyed the show, you sick fuck!" she yells into the air. There's no response, not even a magical bitchslap to put her in her place, which makes her edgy and apprehensive. Any response would be better than this silence. 

_How long has it been, anyway?_ she asks herself. Two meals have come and gone, but not at regular intervals; she's being kept on the edge of hunger, probably to take the fight out of her. Two days? More than that, maybe; she can go a long time without food. He's smart, she has to give him that. The isolation is making her lose track of time, weakening her resolve.

Nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Loki comes while she's unconscious, again. Natasha jolts out of sleep and moves into a defensive position before she's completely awake, crouched and poised to spring. Loki just regards her with indulgent amusement, like he's watching a neurotic puppy do tricks.

"Sneaking up on me again?" she spits. Every muscle in her body is humming with adrenaline. Loki just shrugs.

"Why would I have any need to do that?" he asks with a roll of his eyes, as if the idea is so ludicrous he can't help but smirk. "You hardly pose a threat to me."

"Fuck off."

She sneers at him and turns away, and Loki's face suddenly contorts in fury. He takes three long strides across the room and grabs her by the throat, slamming her against the wall hard enough to smack her head against the stone. Natasha chokes as he lifts her nearly off her feet, scrabbling at his armored forearms.

"You had a chance to make this easy on yourself," he hisses, his eyes feverish and furious. "You lost it."

He flings her against the table, and the sharp corner catches her in the ribs. She moves with the pain, hitting the floor and rolling, leaping to her feet with the table in between her and Loki. He hisses at her like an angry cat, and Natasha tenses, ready to run from him. It's pointless, she's not going to get away, but all her plans of faking defeat have fled her mind completely, replaced with a frantic mantra: _don't let him get me, don't let him get me._

Loki snaps his fingers, and two of him rush her from either side while a third vaults over the table and lunges for her. Natasha does the only thing she can do and drops, crawling under the table as fast as she can, but the Loki on the left grabs her ankle and hauls her close even as she claws at the floor, still trying futilely to escape.

He drags her upright by her hair, and she growls and twists, going for the soft parts of his face with her nails, but he catches her wrists and bends her backwards, flattening her against the surface of the table. Her back screams in pain and her abdomen throbs in sympathy. She fights it, wriggling out of his hands, but he only flips her over and pins her against the table, shoving her against it with one hand between her shoulder-blades.

"I am going to enjoy this," he snarls, and kicks her legs open. "Scream, Natasha."

She opens her mouth to snap back, but he pushes into her violently, and she shrieks instead, her back arching like a bow. Loki laughs, and thrusts again, again, until her cries of pain are choking her, clogging her throat; she won't let him hear her, won't give him that satisfaction, but she can't stop her furious tears from coursing down her cheeks. She smacks the table over and over again, and pretends she's smashing Loki's face to pieces, breaking his nose and his jaw, shattering the bones of his eye sockets, turning him to an ugly mush of blood and detached muscle.

Behind her, Loki groans and tenses, the rough slide of him inside her pausing as he shudders. Natasha gasps and digs her nails into the table, and waits until he pulls out of her. The instant he steps back, she whirls around and sweeps his leg out from under him, and he goes down hard on one knee. Natasha bares her teeth at him and waits for him to come after her.

Loki stays kneeling for a long moment, panting, head bowed. Then he looks up, and he's laughing, the asshole is laughing.

"You're a fool," he says. "Don't you see that your resistance only makes it worse for you? Give in, Natasha. Your submission will earn you peace."

"Let me repeat myself," she says. "Fuck. Off."

"Have it your way," he says with a sneer, climbing to his feet. "Wash yourself off - " he points to the table, where a bucket has flickered into being. "And pray my seed has taken root in you, for I'll have to be gentle once it does lest you miscarry.

"And if it hasn't, tomorrow I will come back, and I will show you real cruelty."

Natasha says nothing, standing rigid. She can feel his semen dripping down her leg, probably mixed with her blood. She meets his eyes, and after a moment Loki inclines his head slightly, and steps back into nothingness.

_If I get pregnant, I'll kill it_ , she decides, running her fingers over her flat stomach. She'll run up against the table until she miscarries, and if she bleeds out, so be it. There's no way she'll bring one of his monsters into the world.

 

**IV. Loki**

Once, before the Abyss, Loki had had limits, boundaries he would not cross. Children were one: he refused to hurt them in any manner, though he had few problems with orphaning them when it suited his needs. Rape was another, a blunt instrument used by brutes to bully the weak in the most invasive way possible, and Loki not only disdained such tactics as crude and unimaginative, but felt visceral disgust at the thought of turning such an intimate act into one of pain and torture. All sentiment, of course, remnants of the life of a man who desperately tried to be good; a man who failed, a man whose entire life was a pretty façade barely hiding the monster beneath. Now, he has left such mawkish tethers behind.

_Still_ , Loki muses as he slips sideways through the shadows and out of his little spider's cage, _should I not feel something? Some disgust, some anger, perhaps even sorrow?_

Looking inside himself, Loki feels -

_(Guilt, Loki, Lie-Smith, Kinslayer, rapist of women and murderer of millions, you feel guilt and it will choke out what little remains of the prince, son, and brother you once were - )_

…nothing.

No, that's untrue; he feels emptiness, dull sensual satisfaction, faint annoyance at his own enjoyment of the crime. He looks forward to the rest of her punishment, and he hopes she resists for a long while before he eventually breaks her down. That is all.

Loki shakes his head, banishing his nagging thoughts. Linking his hands behind his back, he goes to the window and gazes out on the city's skyline. Night had fallen while he was busy with Natasha, and the inorganic glow of Manhattan nightlife blacks out the stars. Such a Midgardian thing to do: obliterate the beauties of nature to construct ugly, misshapen buildings and useless asphalt pathways in their wake. 

He imagines how Natasha would scream if she knew just how close she was to her home and her companions; to freedom, that gorgeous lie which means so much to her and the rest of the writhing mass of humanity.

With a smirk at his faint reflection in the glass of the window, Loki spins on his heel and strides forward, pulling the fabric of this dimension aside as he steps into another realm. What use is there in this morose self-reflection, when he has so many delightfully unspeakable plans to enact?

 

**V. Natasha**

"Come with me, please."

Natasha nearly yells, and whirls around from her position halfway across the room; she's been pacing the perimeter, keeping an eye out for a possible exit and trying to work off her jitters. The young woman standing in front of the door - and where the hell did it come from, anyway? - still managed to sneak up on her. She smiles placidly when Natasha glares at her, and makes no move either towards her or away from her.

"Who are you?" Natasha snaps. "One of Loki's lackeys?" 

The woman's expression doesn't change.

"Come this way, please," she repeats, turning and gesturing out into a brightly-lit hallway. "Lord Loki will see you now."

Natasha's eyes narrow, and she studies the woman briefly, taking in her blank expression and her perfect, nearly rigid movements. A robot or a projection of some sort, she guesses. Not human, at any rate.

"Lord Loki, huh?" she mutters, forcing herself to relax; there's no point in jumping the woman if she's not real. "What a narcissist."

"Come this way, pl - " the woman - the thing - begins yet again, but Natasha huffs and pushes past it, striding into the hall, then stopping dead in her tracks. 

The place is so obviously of human design that Natasha wants to scream; her actual location is still a mystery, but this hallway was made by human hands; it must be in a city or small town.

Unless this is the fake part and that room was real.

No, it can't be. Natasha's pretty sure even Loki couldn't imitate the horrendous patterns of hotel carpet; it takes a uniquely human eye to create something that ridiculous.

She laughs at her own joke, and starts walking again, the projection floating along behind her. Every step she takes reminds her of the dull ache between her legs; while her own examinations tell her she's fully healed from the rape of a few days ago, the pain remains, a phantom reminder of her own helplessness. _Accept it and move on_ , she reminds herself. It would be easier to do if she weren't certain it would happen again, and be all the worse for it.

The hallway opens on a receiving room, quite a charming little place. There's another door on the opposite wall, tantalizingly unlocked - he's taunting her, the asshole - and a redwood coffee-table with two deep, plush couches on either side of it. Loki sits in one, clad in clean armor and leather, his hair freshly slicked back. He looks good, as insane megalomanic rapists go, and disgustingly pleased with himself. Natasha suspects that he cleaned himself up for her, and makes a note of this in the back of her mind.

"You pulled out all the stops," she says as the projection guides her to the couch across from him; it tries with fluttering hands to get her to sit down, but Natasha stays standing, sliding easily into parade rest, a comfortable, powerful position. "Nice hotel, fancy clothes, great food. I'd be flattered if you hadn't kidnapped and raped me."

"Always so nice to see you, Natasha," he says with a smile. "Please, sit down."

"I think I'll stand."

His face hardens. "That wasn't a request."

"Then don't phrase it like one."

She sits. This isn't worth the fight.

Loki contemplates her, and she says nothing, making eye contact and holding it. The silence drags on and on until she can't stand it anymore, and finally speaks.

"So I guess you knocked me up, then."

Loki raises an eyebrow at her, and she elaborates, gesturing around at the room. His eyes stay fixed on her face. "This place isn't exactly set out for the kind of torture you promised me - " Yesterday? Two days ago? " - last time we spoke."

"Ah," he says, and leans back, flinging an arm casually over the back of the couch. "Your powers of observation are truly remarkable. 

"You are indeed with child," he continues, his lips twitching in a smirk. Something in Natasha goes still and turns to ice. "But I think I'll keep my promise to you nonetheless. There is more than one kind of cruelty, Natasha."

Natasha doesn't shiver, but she wants to. Looking around the room, she thinks she knows all too well the type of cruelty he means. Dread curls inside her, and she remembers his strength as he kept her pinned to the table. If she were at the peak of health, she'd have a decent chance, but as it is…

Fear keeps her sharp, when controlled. As much as she hates to admit it, Natasha doesn't have it very well-controlled right now.

The same projection re-enters the room, carrying a goblet in its hands. Setting it on the counter, it bows and disappears. Natasha barely notices; she's staring at the dark liquid inside the goblet, frozen, thinking of amber fluid in a hypodermic needle.

"Mead," he says, when she makes no move to lift her glass. Picking it up, he swirls it like a wine connoisseur, and he continues, "A unique blend, made for me by a friend of mine in Asgard. Drink, Natasha."

"You have friends?" Anything to avoid drinking that mead. Loki's eyes flash.

"Don't make me hurt you again," he warns. "You have no concept of the amount of pain I can cause you without injuring our child in the slightest."

Natasha thinks she does. Numbly, she takes the goblet from him and stares into its depths.

"Go on," Loki says.

The drug she had given him caused intense hallucinations and amplified his perception of fear. What will this drink do to her?

_I'm not shaking_ , she tells herself. She takes a sip; it's heady and sweet and sends an instant warm flush throughout her body.

"All of it," Loki orders.

"It's not my kind of drink," she says in return, stalling the inevitable. He just stares at her. Her thoughts are a jumble: _inconceivable pain_ , she thinks, _real cruelty, what goes around comes around. You always knew he'd catch up to you, Natasha; you just didn't think it'd be like this._

Raising the glass to her mouth, she downs the whole thing; might as well make it fast. Loki's lips curve, and he stands in one fluid motion, coming to sit too closely beside her.

"She is a skilled sorceress," he continues, as if the previous conversation hadn't been interrupted at all. "An even better potions-mistress. But her true speciality lies in the arts of love and lust, and it is with that in mind that I commissioned this mead. It has a certain balance, doesn't it? One poison for another. This one, though, will be considerably more fun."

He spits the last word as forcefully as he would throw a blade, and Natasha squeezes her eyes shut. She fights it with all she has, but when Loki gently runs his knuckles along her cheekbone, she leans into his touch. 

_It feels so good,_ she thinks despairingly, and swears she won't cry this time.

"If I'm pregnant, then why are you doing this?" Her voice is steady. Barely.

"Why, because I can, of course."

His hands are stroking her neck, now, tracing the curve of her clavicle, and she can feel his breath against her ear.

"How long until your body betrays you, do you think?" he asks, his voice low and husky. "How long until you press yourself into my lap, spread your legs for me, beg me to spill my seed inside you?"

His fingers skate down her spine, sending little sparks of pleasure through her body, and Natasha arches against him, her mouth falling open. He kisses along the line of her jaw, presses his lips against the corner of hers.

"I give it ten minutes," he whispers.

"I hate you," she breathes, and he chuckles.

"I know."

He takes her jaw in his hand and forces her head around to look at him. Her eyes flutter open involuntarily, and she looks straight into his green gaze. There is real desire there, not just sick amusement or clinical analysis.

_I can use that_ , she thinks, licking her lips, watching how his eyes follow the trail of her tongue. Natasha sighs, screwing her eyes shut like she's disgusted with her body's betrayal, and sinks into his lap, kissing him full on the mouth. He drops his hand, slides it down her back to cup the curve of her ass, pulling her more fully against him until she straddles him completely. Natasha flattens herself against him, rubbing her breasts against his armor, panting, the leather and metal chafing her nipples, and it feels so fucking good, each sensation making her shiver, heat pulsing between her legs. Loki takes her hips in his hands and grinds her hard against his thigh, and she moans loudly, involuntarily.

"I hate you," she groans, "give me more," and he laughs, a little unsteadily.

"Look at you, Natasha," he says hoarsely. "Wanton little thing - "

Now his kisses grow sloppy, less controlled, and she gets bolder, burying her hands in his hair and dragging him closer, tugging it out of its helmet-like coif. His hands are running up and down her sides, coaxing little shivers from her body. Slowly, she rolls her hips against him, and what she'd mistaken for a leather codpiece is definitely his cock: he moans into her mouth and twitches, just from that little bit of pressure.

_So sensitive_ , Natasha thinks, a little surprised. _It's like making out with a virgin._

Of course, he's not. There's the little fact that she's fucking pregnant to prove that.

She humps his thigh again, gasping and shuddering as her cunt slides slickly against the leather in just the right way, and Loki grunts, stilling his hands with a clear effort, before flipping her over agilely and pinning her down, keeping her thighs spread with his knees. He looks more sure of himself like this, despite his flush and too-wide eyes. She'd made him uncomfortable, out of control, and she marks this one down as a victory even as she twists and pants beneath him.

"Loki," she says, "you asshole, I fucking hate you."

"How impolite," he replies breathlessly. "Maybe I should just fuck you and not let you come."

Natasha wraps a leg around his hips and arches against him. "Do you really want to do that?"

He huffs a laugh. "No. But I will if you test me."

His hand steals between her legs, and she tosses her head back and gasps as he strokes her lightly.

"Why, you're drenched," he says, delighted. "I must congratulate Amora; her potion works better than I ever would have expected."

_Amora._ She'll remember that name: an ally of Loki's.

But then he parts her swollen lips with his fingers, and she cries out and clenches down upon nothing, on the brink of orgasm despite hardly being touched. She opens her mouth, and her lips form the word _please_. She doesn't say it.

Loki sees it, though, and his smile widens.

"Beg," he commands. "Beg me, Natasha, and I'll give you pleasure before I take mine."

She clamps her teeth down hard on her lip, and shakes her head violently. _That's too far, he's gone too far, I won't beg him for anything -_

"Fine," he says, a little snotty, and at some point he'd unlaced his clothing and pulled himself out because he thrusts into her unexpectedly, shocking a yelp out of her. It's nothing at all like the first time he'd raped her, nothing like the tearing pain and the fear. Loki's cock fills her, stretches her deliciously, and it's so good that any fear or doubt has been chased from her mind; she flings back her head, and rocks against him with each thrust. He takes her legs and throws them over his shoulders, causing all of her muscles to tense and squeeze in the most wonderful ways, and drives into her even harder. Natasha's going to come, he didn't even touch her clit and she's going to come - her legs slip from his shoulders to lock around his waist, and she throws her head back and cries out, reaching for him; he grabs her wrist with one hand and sucks her fingers into his mouth, teeth scraping against her skin, his other hand gripping her hip hard, pulling her flush against his body. Natasha writhes and whines and spasms around him, and screams her hate for him into the crook of his shoulder as she comes.

It's nothing like before, not at all. It's a thousand times worse.

Loki stays inside her after he finishes for what feels like an hour but is probably a few minutes at most, resting his forehead against hers and shaking with the aftermath of orgasm. His eyes are closed, and he looks exquisitely vulnerable. If he were human, she could kill him so easily, but she doesn't trust her own reflexes against his right now. Natasha links her hands behind his back, half-hugging him, and he stiffens in surprise before relaxing against her once more.

_Such a little boy,_ she thinks, _so needy, so desperate for attention._

She wonders if being loved back when he was younger would have changed anything - real love, not this chemical-induced facsimile of lust covering up loathing. Maybe it would have, she'll never know. But it doesn't really matter, because he wasn't, and asking academic questions about love and loss isn't going to get her out of here or make him dead.

"Natasha," Loki says after several long minutes. Just her name, nothing else. She can't read his tone at all. Gritting her teeth, she tries to say something kind.

"I still hate you," she says instead. "Sex means nothing to me. This - _thing_ \- inside me means nothing. I _despise_ you."

"I know," he says, and rests his hand on her stomach. "But will you hate this, when you finally hold him in your arms? I think not. No parent does."

He sounds tired. Satisfied. Pushing himself up and off her, he sits up on the couch and adjusts himself, smoothing his clothes back in place. Natasha instantly curls in on her body, tucking her legs and arms in protectively. If he touches her again, she'll lose it. Maybe if she provokes him, he'll hit her hard enough…

No. She pushes the thought away; she's got months to deal with this problem, and she needs to remember that. There have to be other, less deadly ways to induce a miscarriage.

Loki doesn't leave, doesn't move away; he sits cross-legged and watches her. When she glances at him, she's stunned by the expression on his face: smug, angry, lustful, possessive, guilty. The first would be understandable, the last shocking, but the mix of them all is a confusing concoction of emotion that she doubts he's capable of handling.

"You won't stop, will you," she says flatly. It's not a question.

"No," he agrees. "I won't."

 

**VI. Loki**

In another life, Loki thinks he and Natasha Romanoff could have been friends.

They have much in common, the both of them sly, clever, unexpectedly cruel and kind in turns. She is just a mortal, but he considers her a match for him in many ways; had she been born in Asgard ( _or if they both had been born and raised on Jötunheim_ , his traitorous mind whispers), they could have been companions, fellow sorcerers, mirrors of each other: the god of chaos and the goddess of deceit. 

But in this life, he cannot have her friendship nor her love, and so he wants neither; instead, he will have her spirit, have children from her, and make her his even as he breaks her. Absolute possession of her body and soul will serve as partial restitution for the crimes she has inflicted upon him (and perhaps Thor, that fool, will finally realize how little is left in Loki of his cherished daydream of a brother that never was).

Naturally, he will have to resort to more sophisticated techniques than an ordinary mortal would require. She'll almost certainly attempt to mislead him with kisses and soft words, just as she had done before, but this time he'll outplay her at her own game; all he must do is allow her to think she's seduced him successfully, and her own ego will trip her up if she tries any schemes. And if she does, somehow, manage to trick the Trickster, he will catch her again, and this time he will show no mercy. He will keep her in bondage both physical and magical, and force her to bear litters of creatures mutated beyond recognition until she is on the brink of death, and then -

Then he will coddle her, heal her, enchant her with love spells and sweet touches, and make her start the cycle once more.

Even the Black Widow, unique among mortals, could not withstand such abuse without going mad. In fact, Loki wants her to go mad, eventually. Let her see how _she_ likes it.

 

**VII. Natasha**

From that day on, Natasha gets no peace. Loki's libido is apparently bottomless, and despite having impregnated her already, he's never content with a simple blowjob to give her body a break. Instead, he makes sure to come inside her every time, then holds her down for ages afterward, as if keeping his semen inside her will make any difference. Sometimes, the most disconcerting times, he pins her down with his body and croons in her ear about the children they will make, the beautiful monsters that will march on Asgard as Loki finally brings Ragnarök to the threshold of the Shining Citadel. She's not sure if he's sincere or if he's just trying to fuck with her.

To make things much, much worse, he takes to lacing all her food and water with the same aphrodisiac he'd used on her previously. It isn't a big dose, not enough to incapacitate her or send her into the haze of delirious lust she'd been in before, but it keeps her constantly aroused to the point of distraction; she spends a lot of time on her back or, as her belly swells, on her knees, twisting to reach behind herself, working her hand desperately between her legs until her wrists get sore. 

Loki watches her masturbate, sometimes; he'll show up in her cell and lean against the wall, silent and unmoving, and stare as she fucks herself, grabbing and pinching at her breasts, fingers sliding deep inside, guttural curses in a dozen languages falling from her mouth. The first time, she'd stopped immediately and shouted at him, trying to salvage her pride, and he'd glared at her and flicked his wrist in her direction. Green fire had darted from his fingers and set her aflame, and even though she hadn't blistered or scarred, it had felt just like burning alive. Natasha had screamed, and screamed, and begged him to let her go, to please not hurt the baby, and Loki hadn't said a thing. After a while, he had banished the flames with a wave of his hand and left without a word. He hadn't come back for what felt like days, and during that time, she was given nothing to eat.

Natasha lets him watch her, after that.

****

. . .

  


Rather than find an unscrupulous doctor or some magician with experience in obstetrics, Loki takes to doing her checkups himself. Natasha isn't sure where he learned any of it, or if he's just making it up as he goes along; it's not like she knows enough to tell either way. Children and childcare have never been anything she's remotely interested in.

It goes fairly similarly each time: Loki will come in, bind Natasha in whatever way he deems best - sometimes it's with chains against the table, just like old times, or sometimes he gets his little projection to hold her down; there's really no end to his imagination - and he'll run his hands across her stomach, checking on the fetus with his magic. He never touches her sexually during these exams, for whatever reasons, and Natasha almost always stays stubbornly silent. Avoiding conversation, she's discovered, is the best way to prevent her from breaking his skull, and thus ruining all her plans. The method works for her, and the exams have nearly become routine.

This time is different, though, more like a twisted social call than a doctor's visit. Natasha is wide awake when Loki comes in, the projection following him with a lidded tray in its hands, but he makes no effort to strap her down her or subdue her. Instead, he stands across from her at a polite distance, watching her thoughtfully, then gestures curtly to the projection. It sets the tray on the table before leaving. Natasha harbors a brief fantasy of running past Loki and out the disappearing door, but dismisses it as yet another shitty escape plan likely to get her killed.

"Hello, Natasha," Loki says once they're alone, courteous to a fault. "How are you today?"

"Good morning to you, too," she says. "Or afternoon, or night. I'm just fine. How are you?"

His eyes gleam with amusement. This is a game they sometimes play, pretending that this situation is in any way normal, that they're just friends having a nice conversation; whoever keeps their mask in place the longest is the winner. Natasha reckons they're about equal in wins and losses, at this point.

"Quite well, thank you," he replies. He flicks his fingers at the tray, and the lid shimmers out of existence, revealing - food. Croissants, with a little pot of jam and a butter knife, and strawberries. Natasha eyes the knife and bites her lip, but this, too, is too much of a risk.

"Sunday brunch?" she asks. "You shouldn't have."

"I do try to be generous," he says. "Here, I believe it's been a while since you've had this."

Fresh, hot coffee. She can smell it from here, and she inhales deeply before she can help herself.

"Good, isn't it?" His voice is a low purr. "I have to admit, I've grown fond of the drink. It's a pity Midgard didn't have it centuries ago."

"We did, actually," she points out, keeping her tone even. "Just not in the part of the world you went to."

He rolls his eyes, as if to ask what that should matter, and waves his hand dismissively.

"If you insist," he sighs. "Put your back to the wall, Natasha."

She resists, for some stupid reason, standing firm and staring at him blankly.

"What, now you can't comprehend your own primitive tongue?" he snaps, and steps forward, grabbing her by the shoulder and shoving her against the wall. Looks like she won today. "Tiresome mortal."

But his voice, though still dangerous, lacks the deadly sharpness it sometimes has, and when he pins her wrist to the wall, he only grips hard enough to leave the faintest of bruises. Natasha holds still and tells herself not to struggle as the warm tingle of magic crawls over her skin. It creeps down her arm to her shoulder as Loki performs the same spell on her other arm.

"This is new," she says after a moment. Loki crouches to do the same to her ankles.

"I think you might enjoy it," he replies, and there's a low undercurrent of malicious amusement in his voice that makes all her muscles tense. The magic travels down her arms and up her legs to meet at her solar plexus, and for a split second she's feverishly hot, but the magic fades quickly - and Natasha cannot move. At all. From her shoulders up, yes, and she can move her fingers and toes, but no matter how she heaves and struggles against the invisible bonds, she can't break loose. She digs her nails into the wall and smacks her head against it, the tendons in her neck standing out as she tries and tries to move, but despite all her training and all her strength, Natasha can't fight magic. Panic speeds her breath, and she lets out a little, involuntary sound that she steadfastly tells herself is not a whimper.

"Enjoying yourself?" Loki's wearing a nasty little smile, and never has anyone on his knees before her looked so monstrous. She doesn't deign to reply, and instead concentrates on fighting off a panic attack, inhaling and exhaling in carefully controlled rhythm, ignoring Loki's hands on the curve of her stomach. After a moment, he hums in satisfaction and leans back on his heels, one palm still pressed to her skin.

"All is well," he tells her. "The child is healthy."

"Why don't you just use a charm or something to make it grow?" she asks after taking a few deep breaths, curiosity getting the better of her.

He looks up at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and says, "Now, what would be the fun in that?"

If she wasn't magicked to the wall, she'd break his teeth with her fist.

Loki stands and turns back to the food. He pours coffee into an exquisite china cup, and arranges fruit and a croissant on a matching plate with ostentatious flourishes, glancing at her sideways to make sure she's watching.

"You're one hell of a sadist," she says to him, eyes on the food. "Practically a professional."

"Coming from you," and he gives her a cold sliver of a smile, making her skin prickle in warning, "I shall take that as a compliment. From one professional to another."

Taking her cue from his tone, Natasha shuts up. Loki reclines on the table and munches on a strawberry, watching her with an unreadable expression.

_Pepper Potts is allergic to strawberries_ , her mind informs her in Natalie Rushman's voice, and she shoves that back into whatever corner of her subconscious it had come from.

"You forget, don't you," Loki says finally, breaking the silence. "Why you're here. What crimes you must atone for."

"I don't forget," she says quietly. "I try to forgive my actions, but I never forget them."

"Forgive," he muses. "Not the word I would expect to hear. Justify, perhaps. But not forgive." He cocks his head, watching her intently. "Do you believe you deserve forgiveness, Natasha?"

"Everyone does," she replies, after a moment. "Up to a point."

"And what happens when you reach that point? If you still crave forgiveness?"

Natasha doesn't know how to answer that, doesn't know his angle. He's still staring at her, though, waiting for an answer. She swallows, then speaks.

"I guess you try to wipe out the red in your ledger. You might never make it into the black, but you can break even."

Loki drops his eyes for a moment, contemplative. Natasha watches him as closely as he'd been watching her, hoping against hope that she'd made an impression.

"You're a true optimist," he says, and shakes his head. "So naïve, so pitifully misled. It would be sweet, if it weren't so pathetic. A woman of your intellect has no excuse."

"Maybe I'm dumber than you think," she snaps, suddenly completely fed up with his bullshit. "Maybe I _am_ deluded and you're the grand master of us all. I'd bow and scrape if only I could move."

"Sarcasm ill becomes you," he says primly, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. He tears off the corner of a croissant and stands, crossing the few feet between them and finally stopping with just a few inches of space left between their bodies.

"Here," he says, and offers her the piece of croissant. "Are you not hungry?"

Yes, she is. She flexes her muscles against the invisible restraints, succeeding at moving absolutely nothing, and goes over her options. After a long pause, she opens her mouth. Loki places the bread between her lips. His eyes scan her face as she chews and swallows, but if he finds anything of interest there, his expression doesn't give it away.

"More?" he asks once she's done.

"Are you trying to make me beg for it?"

"Don't I always?" He actually bites his lip to keep from laughing, making himself look like a twelve-year-old boy giggling at dirty jokes, disturbingly human. Natasha shuts her eyes briefly, and inwardly screams a dozen Russian curses in his direction.

"I'd like some more, please," she says, and keeps her eyes closed as he feeds her, breaking the croissant into small pieces and setting them gently in her mouth. He's being kind today, and she tries to puzzle out why even as she takes food from his fingers. Despite her efforts, she finds herself being desperately grateful to him for it, for this bizarre tenderness that is so much better yet so much worse than the pain and fear he usually brings with him.

Something cold and rough touches her lips, and Natasha goes rigid for a second before realizing what it is. A strawberry, just a strawberry, and Natasha opens her mouth to take it in, nibbling at the tip. It's fresh and bursting with juice, and a little dribbles down her chin. Loki brushes it away with his thumb, the first time he's touched her since he began feeding her, and Natasha twitches in reflexive shock. He pauses, then softly drags his thumb over her lips again. She parts her lips, and takes it into her mouth, sucking lightly. Loki gasps audibly, and she opens her eyes to see him staring at her, his cheeks burning. She scrapes her teeth gently across his knuckle and lets him go. He can hold her down and fuck her, drug her, brutalize her, but the smallest reciprocal gestures of affection will make him blush. It would be sweet, if it weren't so pathetic.

"May I have some more?" she asks, perfectly innocent, and Loki breaks her gaze to take another strawberry from the plate.

"Since you asked so nicely," he says in reply, and holds it to her lips.

Fruits are almost uniformly seductive foods, succulent and sweet, and when it comes to imagery, strawberries are some of the best. Natasha bites off the end of the fruit and sucks at the juices within, lapping at them, letting them stain her lips and tongue red. She peers at Loki from under her lashes, and is gratified to see his blush hasn't faded in the slightest. She opens her mouth for another fruit, and Loki says, "Stop."

She blinks in surprise and turns her face up toward his, but she catches only a glimpse of his darkened eyes and flushed face before his hand is at her throat and his lips are on hers.

Loki kisses her deeply, almost violently, and Natasha has a moment of utter fright when she tries to move and remembers she can't. In a few seconds, she shakes it off, and returns his kiss as ardently as she can. It's easy to do; his magic confines her body but muffles no sensations, and the weight of his body upon her and the rough leather and metal of his clothes against her skin feel terrifyingly good. His hand on her throat tightens, and Natasha gasps, arching her back in a helpless struggle to get away.

"I know exactly what you're doing, sow," he hisses against her lips. "Do not think I am so easily manipulated as to fall victim to the beauty of a mortal slut like you."

"Just thought I'd have some fun," she whispers hoarsely, her muscles strained uselessly, and casts around for something to say that might make him stop choking her. "I wasn't trying to pull anything, I swear."

He pauses, and his hand relaxes slightly. 

"You aren't lying," he murmurs, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"No, I'm not," she says, and tries not to plead with him. "I really just want - "

She cuts herself off, and Loki grins at her, all teeth.

"You just want what?" he asks silkily, and runs his hand down her side. "Go on."

This would be so much better if it were a trick, but the truth is she wasn't lying at all. It's a long game she's playing, but despite herself and her thinking mind, the disgusting, demoralizing truth is that she wants him between her legs, that he's trained her to get wet on command, in response to his kisses. Natasha squeezes her eyes shut and lets her head fall back.

"Please," she begs, and Loki presses himself against her, groaning in triumph.

****

. . .

  


Of course, despite her body's enjoyment of it all, it's an act, constructed to make Loki disregard her as a threat; she'd like for him to trust her, even love her, but she doubts he's capable of such a thing anymore. Over the weeks, Natasha never once fakes an orgasm. What she does fake, though, are her willing, eager kisses, the delight she takes in spreading her legs for him, and how she yields to him, over and over. It works. After a while he stops tying her up; he gives her books to read, and switches out the table for a mattress; he even gives her clothes, a filmy robe made out of green gauze that's just like something a human male would want her to wear. (It's nice to know men are predictable across space, time, and species.) He's getting cocky, taking her compliance for granted. _After all_ , his voice echoes in her head, _it is in your very nature; are mortals not made to kneel before gods?_

It takes a very long time, and a little part of Natasha gets cut deeper and deeper each time she lies back and lets him rape her. _It's a deep-cover operation_ , she tells herself. _You have to play a part to get your mark, no matter how hard it gets. You have a plan, and all you need is time to implement it._

_And never forget that the Black Widow_ never _gives in._

  


**. . .**  


Lying supine on her bed, Natasha laces her fingers over her swollen belly and stares past the ceiling. All her books have been read several times through, she's run through her exercises so often she's bored to tears, and Loki has been gone for several days. Left alone with her thoughts, she finds that she's begun to miss his company, if not him personally.

_Spoiled_ , she thinks contemptuously. _All that time with the Avengers made me spoiled and soft. And where the fuck are they now, those friends? You idiot, Natasha, you never should have trusted -_

The fetus moves.

Embarrassingly, Natasha shouts in alarm and sits bolt upright, digging her nails into the flesh of her stomach. To her left, the door materializes and the projection she's taken to calling Friday - as in Loki's girl Friday - pops its head in.

"Has something harmed you?" it inquires. The fetus rolls around in her uterus again. Natasha thinks she may be sick.

"No," she says. "Just cramps. Nothing to worry about."

Friday doesn't know a thing about pregnant women. It nods, and says, "Lord Loki should be returning soon. Please prepare for him."

It hovers, waiting for an acknowledgement. Natasha gives it a tight smile, and that seems to be enough.

"I'll have your drink ready in a minute," it says, satisfied, before shutting the door neatly. Natasha has already looked away, curling her hands around her stomach. The mead - of course. She hasn't been dosed in a week or so, however long Loki's been gone, and he likes her desperate and needy when he gets back from a long trip. 

It sickens her that she can be so matter-of-fact about all this. Natasha knows herself and her limits, and she's almost reached the pressure point where she either has to explode with disastrous results or let her resistance dissipate. This is her choice: will it be a suicide run or Stockholm Syndrome?

Like she even needs to think about it.

So.

If Loki's coming soon, that means she'll have to be prepared, and she will be. Oh, will she be ready. Decision made, Natasha grins, and stretches out on her mattress, arching her back until it cracks pleasantly.

A weird sort of elation has taken over her, one she recognizes from other life-or-death scenarios she's had to face: a mix of panic and determination combined with the overwhelming, joyful knowledge that this is what she's meant to do - cloak-and-dagger work, sneaking, killing. She's sculpted herself into a weapon, a super-soldier lacking the moral scruples of Captain Rogers but with a thousand times the guile, and now she's itching for a fight.

Friday reappears with Natasha's goblet, and watches her as she drinks it down. Handing it back, Natasha smiles and says, "Thank you."

The projection practically has an orgasm with joy at being appreciated for its work. Loki really does like his women servile.

As soon as she's alone, Natasha goes to the far corner of the room where she'd once held court and sticks her fingers down her throat. All the mead comes up and splatters on the ground; hopefully that will be enough to keep the drug out of her system. Now, all she'll need to do is pretend to be insane with desire the moment she lays eyes on him.

It won't be as hard to do as she'd like. Loki has conditioned her well. But not well enough.

Launching into her isometric stretching exercises, Natasha lets the adrenaline hum through her veins, and smiles.

****

. . .

  


When she's summoned to the sitting room just a few hours later, Loki is up and pacing in circles, hands behind his back. His armor is scratched and dented, he's got a nasty scrape down the side of his face and a cut lip, and he looks exhilarated.

"Ah, Natasha," he says when he catches sight of her, drawing out each syllable. "You look lovely."

"Thank you," she replies. She's dressed in the green robe he gave her, but unless he can read her newfound purpose in her flushed skin and bright eyes, she looks exactly the same as she always does.

He gives her an intense, appraising look, and a quiver of lust runs through Natasha's body. Fucking hormones. Fucking potion. She thought she'd spat it out in time, but maybe not.

"I rather think I'll keep you pregnant all the time," he muses. "It suits you."

Natasha opens her mouth, then shuts it, unable to think of anything to say. Loki crooks his finger, and she goes to him, sliding easily into his arms.

"You've become so pliant," he murmurs, pressing his mouth to her hair. Natasha grits her teeth and manages not to shudder against him, in either disgust or pleasure. "Have I broken you to bridle already?"

"I'm not a horse," she says sulkily, and he snorts.

"Oh, not at all. Any steed worth my time would have taken much longer to tame. Your company, however, I much prefer, little broodmare."

He catches her chin in his hand, and brings her head up to meet his eyes, eyes narrowed and dangerous. "No matter what your mortal myths say."

Loki can swing wildly from one extreme emotion to another, and right now, his mood is tenuous. Natasha needs him sweet for her rough draft of a plan to work, so she cups his face in her hands and runs her thumb lightly across the scrape.

"What happened to you?" she asks, changing the subject. Loki's mood changes quickly as a prairie storm, and he grins widely, stepping back and flinging his arms out grandly.

"I've made things extremely inconvenient for a certain Asgardian king," he says smugly. "It is true that I have been banished, but unbeknownst to him, the hidden pathways between realms are still known to me."

"And Heimdall doesn't see you? That's really impressive. Seriously."

He practically glows at her praise. Faking affection is the exact same tactic she'd used on him in that interrogation room so long ago; she wonders why it works so well, considering his rampant paranoia and general misanthropy. Maybe he just feeds on the admiration of a captive audience. It wouldn't surprise her. Didn't Tony call him a diva, once?

"You have no concept of how impressive it truly is, little Natasha," he says, and steps forward, giving her a quick, brutal kiss on the lips. "If you had any skill with magic, perhaps you would." His eyes grow contemplative, and he drops his hand to the curve of her abdomen. "Our children will be powerful sorcerers. Perhaps I'll teach you along with them, when the time comes."

"You'd trust me with that?" She speaks in the same tone as she once asked _you really think I'm pretty?_

"You'd have to bind yourself to me as a thrall, of course," he says, and pushes her to the couch. "I will never trust you completely, Natasha Romanoff."

_But you'll trust me enough._

"Never?" She grabs him by the straps of his armor and pulls him to her; he goes willingly, slipping a hand between her legs, kissing her deeply and intensely.

"Perhaps in a few centuries," he gasps, when they finally come up for air. "A pity you're mortal."

"Mmm," she hums in agreement, and unlaces the well-worn leather of his clothes. Pressing her back to his chest, she straddles him, and for once, he lets her, leaning back and watching her with lazy, lidded eyes as she sinks onto him. Natasha bites her lip as a little moan slips out; the aphrodisiac is definitely in her system, effective even in tiny doses - she hopes it's the aphrodisiac - but she's still clear-headed enough. It won't be a problem.

Using his torso as leverage, she starts to gyrate in his lap, and he sighs in pleasure and takes her by the waist, teasing her with short little thrusts done in syncopation with her rhythm. Natasha lets her head loll back against his shoulder, her lips parted; his cock really does feel good inside her. She's mostly stopped loathing herself for thinking so.

_The more vulnerable I seem, the more I'll take him by surprise, and then I'll have the bigger advantage_ , she reminds herself, taking comfort in the dry recital of her plan, and speeds her pace, forcing her own pleasure for the sake of enhancing his. Loki's hands drift down and rest on the soft swell of her belly; he's held in a perpetual state of curiosity and amazement whenever he gets his hands on it, like he's never seen a pregnant woman before.

"Mine," he whispers. Natasha's not sure if she's supposed to have heard it. "Everything in here is mine."

He's right; he created everything in there, reproductive organs, baby, and all. With a quiet snort, she thinks, _I'm getting an abortion and a hysterectomy as soon as I get out of here._

Flexing her pelvic floor, she makes herself come in small shivers that make her whole body stiffen and soft little whimpers fall from her mouth. Still moving her hips, she coaxes Loki to his orgasm, and when he does come he grunts and clasps her to him; it's not an embrace so much as a spasm of nerves and muscles. Breathing hard, she slips off him as gracefully as she can and curls up at his side, watching him. He tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes, as relaxed and loose as she's ever seen him. Natasha studies his profile, the elegant line of his throat. She remembers thinking how nice his skin was, back when she interrogated him, and what she had asked him then. _"I wonder if you'll rip out your throat?"_

It's almost poetic, how things have come full circle.

Leaning forward, she drops tender kisses along his jaw, and Loki leans his head back even further to give her better access. So trusting. She nips and licks at his neck, pausing just to the side of his Adam's apple, feeling the pulse of his carotid beneath her lips. And then she bites.

Her teeth crunch through thick thyroidal cartilage as she crushes his larynx, and blood sprays her and the walls as Loki thrashes, his body rigid in shock, his fist connecting with her jaw. She tears away, and catches a glimpse of his wild eyes, his face streaked with tears of pain and fury.

"You look good when you cry," she says, vicious, and grabs him by the hair and yanks him off the couch. He's twisting out of her grip and reaching for her with claw-like fingers, but before he can overcome the pain and shock completely, she slams his head against the coffee table with all her strength, once, then twice, accidentally catching the edge on the third time. Loki goes limp, and she holds on a moment to make sure he's not faking it before letting him go. There's blood everywhere, making the pretty room into a grisly crime scene, and blood and bits of hair on the redwood table.

"That'll stain," she comments, and she spins on her heel, bolting to the door on the far side of the room, the one she's never looked behind. It's still unlocked - he must have forgotten to check it or just stopped caring. Natasha flings it open and runs into what looks to be the penthouse suite in a classy hotel. Immediately she goes to the main entrance, and very nearly turns the handle, but the entire door is glimmering with verdant webs: Loki's magic. Natasha takes two steps back, glancing around for some object to throw. No pictures on the wall, no convenient telephone...but there's an umbrella stand in the corner, empty except for a cane. Picking it up, she flips it around, testing its solidity.

_That'll work_ , she thinks, and tosses it at the spelled door. The cane explodes, and she dodges flying splinters even as she runs, leaving the room in a hurry.

Now she's operating off pure fear and adrenaline, not an optimal state for a spy. The windows in the suite are huge, and she wonders what story she's on, calculating how likely it is that there's a ledge she can jump on below or to the side -

And then she takes a good look at the view, and her jaw drops.

Manhattan. She's in Manhattan, just miles away from Avengers Tower. Minutes away from rescue.

"Oh, you bastard," she whispers.

Tears well in her eyes, but she ignores them, assessing her priorities. Presuming there is a ledge or some type of handhold, she could just jump from the window, but she needs to have a backup plan in case she needs it. For that, she needs weapons. 

The kitchen is sparse, but it has an excellent set of knives. She takes the ones best suited to throwing and the chef's knife for stabbing, tucking them into the belt of her robe, and is turning to investigate the rest of the drawers when she hears a noise coming from the other room.

_Can't be_ , she thinks wildly, freezing in place, _he should be dead_ , and then she corrects herself. He'd be dead if he were human, but he's not, and she can't just stand here like a frightened bunny, she has to _move._

There's a row of barstools lining the countertop. She takes one and hauls it to a spot about six feet away from the window, and heaves it with all her strength. The glass shatters spectacularly, and she spares a brief thought for whatever civilians might be on the sidewalk below. Leaning out, she can indeed see a ledge a few inches from the windowpane, and below that, the gleam of another window.

"Okay, Natasha," she mutters. "You can do this."

Dropping all her knives except for one slim, deadly blade, she lies on her side and edges out over the streets, trying to figure out the right angle to swing into the lower apartment. The added weight from the pregnancy has thrown off her center of balance, making her unsteady, and if she misses she'll topple into the streets thirty stories down. 

And if she doesn't try, Loki will rip her apart as soon as he stumbles out of that room, baby or no baby.

Natasha inhales through her nose, holds it, exhales through her mouth. She grips the rough ledge with both hands and flings herself out of the window.

For one awful, stomach-twisting second, she thinks she's misjudged the angle, that she's going to fall and die, and isn't this a pathetic end for the Black Widow? But she jerks her body hard to the side, braces herself for impact, and smashes through the lower window instead.

_Thank god for the magic of velocity_ , she thinks, and nearly cackles in relief as she picks herself up off the floor. She glances up, and blinks.

There's a man seated at a table, eating a bowl of cereal and talking on a cell phone. Or at least he was, until Natasha came crashing into his apartment. He's staring at Natasha with the sort of shock that should only belong on the face of a young child being confronted by the monster under the bed.

"Come on, you live in New York," Natasha says, and bites back a burst of hysterical laughter. "You've seen weirder."

"What?" says the man numbly. And to be fair, Natasha, pregnant, bloodstained, beaten up, and all but naked, probably ranks in the top ten strangest sights he's seen. Natasha would feel sorry about inflicting this on him, but mostly she wants that phone.

"Sorry, but I need this," she says, and snatches it from the man's slack hands as she runs to the foyer. Natalie Rushman knew Tony Stark's number by heart, and Natasha hasn't forgotten.

"JARVIS," she says the instant the AI picks up the phone, snapping into professional mode. "I need you to track this call and assemble the Avengers at my current location."

"They are already on their way, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS says politely.

"What? How - "

"Mr. Stark picked up your bio-signature about five minutes ago. We have been searching for you for the past six months."

Six months…!

"Well, tell Iron Man to get here faster," she says, wavering slightly but getting herself under control almost immediately. "Loki is - "

From the room she'd just left, she suddenly smells a rush of ozone and hears the heavy thud of something dropping to the floor. The civilian. Loki.

Still clutching the phone, Natasha wrenches open the front door and sprints down the hallway of the apartment complex. It's cowardly, cutting and running like this, but right now Natasha would rather be a coward and live than face down a murderous Norse god with nothing but a knife and her rapidly weakening body.

She's ten feet from the stairwell when the air flickers and Loki appears in front of her. She throws herself out of the way just in time, but her usual methods of stopping a fall are blocked by her belly, and she hits the ground hard. Rolling over, she crab-walks backward, but comes up against a wall. Natasha stops moving, and sits frozen.

Loki looms over her. He's dead white, blood still pumping weakly from the wound in his throat, and she can see the glistening yellow-white of his larynx poking out from behind flaps of skin. Half his face is covered in blood, and at least two-thirds of it is covered with blossoming bruises in deep shades of purple and blue. Natasha has no words for the expression on his face. It is the look of a god who demands human sacrifice, unearthly, demonic, wrathful. He says nothing. He can't. Natasha took care of that.

Loki raises his foot to kick her in the stomach, and Natasha's fingers curl around her one remaining knife.

"Go ahead," she hisses. "I don't want this fucking parasite anyway."

Loki lets out a raspy, nearly silent shriek, the only sound he can make, and his foot connects with her ribs. It catches her in just the right spot, the pain so intense she stops moving for a moment. Coming back to herself, she stabs at him in retaliation, but the knife can't pierce the leather of his boots. He pulls back for another go at her, and she thinks, furious, _This is not how I'm going to die. I refuse._

Loki kicks her again, and this time the pain is vibrant and all-encompassing, like when he grew the uterus inside her in the first place. Again, and she coughs and gags as the pain whites out her vision. Craning her head, she spits in his direction and opens her mouth to defy him once more.

Less than ten seconds later, half of the entire floor gets torn apart as the Hulk comes barreling through. Iron Man is right after him, shooting lasers at Loki as he flees, and Captain America is there too, and Hawkeye -

"Clint!" she cries out, and hauls herself to her feet. "Clint, I'm - "

" _Tasha!"_

She staggers over to him, meeting him halfway, and nearly collapses in his arms. Maybe it makes her a damsel in distress, but she doesn't give a damn; Clint is strong, and safe, and his uniform is familiar and rough and so are the callouses on his hands from years spent with a bow, and he might be the one person still alive she'll let see her cry.

"Tasha, fuck, what did he do to you - "

She's light-headed, cold, and filled with prophetic certainty that she will never, ever die at the hands of Loki. Not now, not ever. Then she hears Steve's voice:

"She's bleeding, Hawkeye, we need to get her to a hospital - "

There is indeed blood dripping down her legs. Too much blood. Natasha smiles at it. There's going to be no need for an abortion after all, and isn't it funny that Loki's the one who killed it, in the end?

Clint says, his voice quiet against her ear, "What happened, Tasha?"

She turns and presses her face against his neck. She'd almost forgotten the way he smells.

"Nothing I can't handle," she whispers back.

 

**VIII. Loki**

Loki has known pain. He has known incredible humiliation, the sucking drag of his magic draining out of him, anguish the likes of which would slay a lesser creature than he. And now, with the God of Thunder standing before him, Mjölnir clenched in one hand, Loki knows the agony all of these things again, vividly, exquisitely.

"Loki," Thor says. He is pale. Horrified. He looks at Loki as if he has come face-to-face with Níðhögg himself. Loki stares back, and drowns in his false brother's eyes.

"Loki," Thor says again. His voice is heavy, every word dropping like the first knell of the storm. "What have you done?"

Loki's exhausted body abruptly decides to give up, and he falls, kneeling at Thor's feet. _Oh, the irony._

"Loki!" Thor is pleading with him. "How could you do this? _Why?"_

Loki's lips have not been sewn shut, but the Black Widow has rendered him speechless nonetheless. Loki raises his hands to his throat, pressing down hard as if he could heal his torn and shattered flesh with willpower alone. 

With every word Loki speaks, he lies, and this is known by all. But now, when nothing but silence slips from his liar's tongue, Loki finds it in himself to tell the truth.

"Why, Thor," he mouths, and blood spills from his lips where it had pooled under his tongue. He smiles, and _that_ part is a lie. "Because this is what monsters _do_."


End file.
